Spring Returning
by little0bird
Summary: A series of vignettes about the Game of Thrones characters. Clearly, based on this and Beyond the Ice and the Fire, I found the latter half of season 8 to be problematic in terms of storytelling and character development. Basically, ignore that the episode The Iron Throne ever existed. The chapters won't be in chronological order.
1. To Know Where I Belong

Sansa climbed the stairs from belowdecks. Tyrion sat on a crate near the bow of the ship, gazing at the northern horizon. She approached the crate and perched next to him. She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. 'You seem to be missing something,' she said lightly.

Tyrion studied himself. Breeches, boots, shirt, doublet, cloak, gloves. The Stark sigil pinned to his cloak. 'Am I wearing something amiss? This is how I remember the style of dress in the North,' he said, running a hand down the front of his jerkin. 'Jon even said it would do.'

Sansa grinned wryly. 'You seem to be missing your winecup.'

'Your tongue is much sharper than it used to be,' Tyrion commented. 'Then again, we are all not what we used to be,' he added softly. He met Sansa's gaze and held up the glazed earthenware mug. 'I thought I'd give sobriety a try.'

Sansa took the mug and sipped the warm liquid. It turned out to be ordinary mint tea, sweetened with honey. She returned the mug to Tyrion. 'How is sobriety treating you?'

Tyrion's brow rose. 'I've had worse days.'

'I'm sorry you have to do this,' she said, keeping her eyes on the railing in front of them.

'It was resume our marriage or go into exile. I've been in exile and didn't care for it.' Tyrion tried to sound flippant, but he couldn't quite manage it.

'At the expense of giving up your name and the ability to pass it on to your children?'

Tyrion waved it off and lifted the mug he cradled between his hands. 'My father never saw me as his son, so no great loss.' He took a sip of the rapidly cooling tea. 'And there should always be Starks at Winterfell. Isn't that what Starks say?'

'It is.'

'Well, there you have it.' His eyes narrowed a little as the sun appeared from behind a cloud, and the light glinted off the water. 'What I told you before our wedding still stands. I will never hurt you.'

'I doubt you could hurt anyone,' Sansa told him.

Tyrion twisted round, a look of outrage knitting his brows together. 'I have grievously injured men in battle before.'

'Self defense,' Sansa pointed out logically. 'You could never hurt anyone you cared for.'

'But I have.' He drank from the mug, wishing it was wine. 'Do you recall your maid Shae?' Sansa nodded. 'She betrayed me - and you - by testifying that you and I plotted to murder Joffery.'

'Fucking cunt,' Sansa muttered spitefully. Tyrion's jaw dropped. 'Not her. Joffery,' she clarified. After a moment's consideration, added, 'Her, too.'

'I had no idea you knew that word.'

'I learned a few from Arya. She learned them from the Hound.'

'At any rate,' Tyrion continued, 'Jaime arranged to have me spirited out of the dungeons before I could be executed for Joffery's murder. I entered my father's chambers to kill him. I found Shae in his bed. She'd sold me out to the highest bidder. Perhaps she might have cared for me at some point, but she was envious of you and resentful of our marriage. Any love she had for me withered away.' Tyrion sighed. 'Shae was going to kill me. She tried to stab me. So I strangled her with the very golden chain I had gifted her as a love token.'

'Again, self defense,' Sansa stated.

'I shot Tywin while he sat on the privy taking a shit,' Tyrion told her. 'With a crossbow.'

Sansa's lips twitched. She giggled, clapping a hand over her mouth. 'I'm sorry,' she said, after collecting herself. 'Such an ignominious manner in which to die.' She tugged the mug from Tyrion's hands and took a sip, then laced her fingers through Tyrion's. 'Your father plotted with the Freys to murder my brother, his wife, my mother, and all our men. You avenged the brutal murder of your wife's family.'

'You've become quite the politician. Able to justify any poor or rash decision.'

'Between Littlefinger, the Boltons, and Daenerys I had to learn to be.' She pulled her feet onto the crate and wrapped her free arm around her knees. 'Do you miss being her Hand?' she asked curiously.

'Getting the hard questions out of the way, are we?'

'Might as well.'

Tyrion rearranged himself so he could lean against a mast. He clasped Sansa's hand between his and turned the palm up. As he spoke, he traced the lines of her palm with a forefinger. 'I don't miss fearing for my life,' he admitted. 'She was every bit as mercurial as Cersei. More than willing to destroy anyone who refused to give her what she felt was her birthright. She wanted to be loved and respected, but only knew how to kindle fear. In many ways, she felt respect was something she deserved, strictly because of an accident of birth.'

'Then why did you follow her?'

'I wanted remove Cersei from the throne.'

'But Tommen was king,' Sansa countered.

'But who was the power behind the throne?' Tyrion retorted. He heaved a longsuffering sigh and tilted his face up to the sun. 'They were both poor rulers, Cersei and Daenerys. Neither of them were willing to hear contrary opinions to their own. Both entirely certain they had the right of it. Neither willing to bend, so they broke instead.'

'Because they were women,' Sansa said sharply.

Tyrion's hands convulsed briefly. 'What do you mean by that?'

'Nobody ever thinks women can think for themselves. Or lead. Or rule unless there are men to help, when most of the time, they're a hinderance. So we're never educated to do so. And if you want to do anything that isn't within the bounds of traditional womanly pursuits, you have to try and do it the way Ser Brienne has, and attempt to meet men on their terms, and it still isn't enough. It never is. Men question every decision you make. So you begin to either believe you are wrong, or you are right and the men are incorrect. There is no middle ground.'

Tyrion's thumb brushed over Sansa's wrist, feeling the pulse that beat there. 'Jorah Mormont was the only person Daenerys would listen to. He was one of the few people she truly trusted. Grey Worm and Missandei were the others, and they never quite figured out they didn't have to agree with her all the time.' He shook his head. 'I should have seen it. I had seen it often enough in Cersei to know what it looked like.'

'You were blinded by your own ambition,' Sansa declared.

Tyrion released Sansa's hand. 'When Jon told me you were starting to let on that you're much smarter than you present yourself, I didn't think you were going to hone it like a dagger.'

'We're more alike than it seems,' Sansa remarked. 'We've had to learn to use our minds to get what we want since neither of us can fight for it.'

'And have you gotten what you want?'

'I would have liked for the North to be an independent kingdom, but if anything the war taught me that no one region in Westeros can survive on its own,' she conceded. 'But Winterfell is mine, and I will be the Warden of the North, just like my father.' She contemplated Tyrion for a long moment. 'As will be my children.'

'I meant what I said on our wedding night,' Tyrion interjected. 'I won't share your bed unless you want it.' He squared his shoulders. 'And I refuse to share your bed strictly to impregnate you.'

'And if I never want you to?'

Tyrion raised his mug in a toast. 'Then my watch continues.'


	2. Little

Sansa propped herself on her elbows. Tyrion sat on the settle in front of the hearth, staring into the glowing coals of the fire. He brooded quite often of late, but insisted he was perfectly well, thank you. Sansa knew better. Tyrion talked when he was well. He even talked when he was unwell. But as the swell of their child grew, he spoke less and less. She moved the furs aside and crossed the room, then lowered herself to the settle next to him. 'All is not well,' she stated.

Tyrion inhaled slowly. 'No.' He scooted closer to Sansa and laid a hand over her abdomen. He was soon rewarded with a vigorous kick against his palm. 'What if…' he trailed off and folded his hands together. 'What if the child is… like.. is like… me?' he asked quietly.

'Kind? Thoughtful? Clever?' Sansa ventured.

Tyrion gave her a heartrending look. 'Little,' he managed.

'I never...' Sansa stammered. 'It never occurred to me,' she admitted. She pushed herself to her feet and added a few sticks of wood to the fire. 'Your stature does not define you. It certainly is not the first thing that comes to mind when asked to describe you.' She stretched, arching her back, the silhouette of the advanced pregnancy visible under her bed gown. 'I've never considered that it might be a concern for you,' she said to her evident chagrin.

'I appreciate the attempt to put my mind at ease,' Tyrion told her. 'But I cannot believe it hasn't invaded your thoughts.'

'It truly hasn't.' Sansa returned to the settle and cupped Tyrion's face between her hands. 'Come back to bed.'

'It was always the first insult Cersei threw at me. Monster. Imp,' he mused. 'My own father wanted to throw me into the sea when I was born so I would drown and never be an embarrassment to the Lannister name.'

Sansa reached for one of Tyrion's hands and pressed it to her belly. 'If this child is little,' she began, 'it will have two parents who will love it. And that is all that matters.'

Tyrion tilted his head back to look Sansa in the eye. 'And if it kills you like I did my mother?'

'You didn't kill your mother,' Sansa replied, more sharply than she'd intended. 'It wasn't as if you made a conscious decision as a newborn.' She bit her lip. Dying in childbirth was never far from her mind, despite her mother's five successful pregnancies. Her aunt Lyanna had died giving birth to Jon. She'd been terrified Brienne would die, recalling the older woman's bloodcurdling screams during her labors. 'Women die in childbirth all the time. If I do, then our child will have a father who will love it and fight to the death to protect it.' Sansa lowered her forehead to rest against Tyrion's. 'Come back to bed,' she repeated.

Tyrion slid off the settle and allowed her to lead him back to their bed. 'How can you not worry?'

Sansa climbed into the bed, and curled onto her side. 'There are things I can control and things I cannot. I choose to worry about the things I can control.' She closed her eyes. 'I have no say over whether our child is a dwarf or not. I can control what I do if it is. That is what I worry about.'


	3. Final Vigil

The woollen fabric was stiff with embroidery. Black suns and crescent moons wound alongside the edges of the long tunic. Brienne rubbed a finger over the stitches that formed a crescent moon. Unrelenting black upon black. She stood and shook it out, then lay it over the bed next to a pair of trousers and a pin worked in the shape of the House sigil. She stared at the black clothing while her ordinary brown roughspun and leather fell to the floor as she undid the laces, and then woodenly donned the trousers and stepped into the matching black slippers. She pulled the tunic over her arms and shoulders, fingers shaking as she fumbled with the unfamiliar fastenings.

'Let me.' Jaime pushed himself off the door frame and grasped Brienne's wrist in his hand. He was dressed in black as well, but with only a small Tarth sigil embroidered on the left shoulder his doublet. She let her hands fall to her sides. He nudged her chin up a fraction of an inch and crossed one side of the tunic over the other, sliding the leather ribbons through their silver buckles on the opposite side.

'I'm not ready for this,' Brienne murmured. She swallowed and clenched her jaw, reaching for the sigil.

'We never are.' Jaime picked up the sword belt and wrapped it around her waist, winding it into a knot after he buckled it, then adjusted the angle of the hilt. He took the sigil from Brienne's cold hand and pinned it to the front of her tunic at her throat, the silver shield glimmering against the black wool. Jaime stepped back and bowed from the waist. There was no hint of mockery or jest in it. 'My lady.'

Brienne took in a slow, deep breath, then squared her shoulders and walked steadily out of the chamber, Jaime following. She faltered just once upon entering the sept, but continued resolutely on until her feet carried her to the end of the bier. Jaime stood next to her, their shoulders just touching.

'Mamma?'

Brienne turned. Nikolas stood framed by the light spilling into the dark sept from the corridor. 'You should be in bed,' she told him.

Nikolas self-consciously tugged at the black jerkin he wore. 'I want… I _should _stand vigil as well.' Brienne hesitated, but nodded. He was the heir now. Nikolas came to stand on her other side. She ran a hand over his hair, then pressed a kiss to the top of his head.

She wondered when he'd gotten so tall. The top of his head now reached the middle of Jaime's chest. Nikolas would be able to look his parents in the eye soon enough. Her throat closed at the idea that one day he would stand vigil for either herself or Jaime. '_Valar morghulis,_' she murmured.

'_Valar dohaeris,_' Jaime responded.

'What does that mean?' Nikolas asked quietly.

'All men must die and all men must serve,' Jaime answered.

'Service to your people, your monarch, your lord.' Brienne gave Jaime a sideways glance. 'Your family.'

'To the people you're sworn to protect,' Jaime added. 'There will be times where the oaths you swear are at odds with one another. And then you have to choose.'

'How?' Nikolas craned his head around Brienne, his brows drawn together.

Jaime rocked on his heels and fixed his gaze on the steady flame of a fat candle. 'Take the Kingslayer, for example,' he murmured. It hurt less to speak of it, with nearly forty years of distance. It seemed as if it all had happened to someone else. 'He swore an oath when he was knighted to protect the innocent. He also swore an oath to defend and protect the Mad King Aerys Targareyan. King Aerys commanded him to kill his father, then ordered his pyromancer to set off the many barrels of wildfire he had hidden under King's Landing.'

'And _you_ decided to protect the innocent,' Nikolas interjected. His parents' heads swiveled in near unison and they both gaped at him. 'I've known who you are for years.'

'How did you find out?' Jaime choked, stepping backward until the backs of his ankles bumped into a set of steps that led to an altar. He sat heavily on one step, feet stretched out in front of him. He felt sick, nausea threatening to overtake him.

'Arya Stark. When I was eight and we were at King's Landing, Arya told you, "Jaime Lannister was said to have died." She said you were a casualty of the Dragon Queen Daenerys Targareyan.' Nikolas adjusted the sleeve of his shirt. 'I didn't understand what she meant at the time, but I have overhead you and Uncle Tyrion talking about your father. Maester Embrose has a book, where he keeps information about all the major houses in Westeros. I looked up the Lannisters, because I knew that Uncle had once been a Lannister. Tywin Lannister had no acknowledged bastards. So I checked the other families that I knew had acknowledged bastards. Jon Snow was listed as one of Eddard Stark's children, and Ramsay Bolton was listed as the legitimate heir of Roose Bolton, but he was born Ramsay Snow. Their fathers publicly recognized them. If you really were Tywin Lannister's acknowledged bastard, there would have been a Jaime Hill.' Nikolas paused, pulling at the collar of his jerkin. It felt unusually tight. 'That's when what Arya said began to make sense. You're really Jaime Lannister.'

Brienne crossed her arms over her chest, glaring at her son. 'You are too clever for your own good.'

Nikolas laced his hands together and sidled to the steps and folded himself to sit next to his father. 'Why did you forsake your oath to the Kingsguard?' he asked carefully, keeping his eyes firmly on the toes of his boots.

'Which oath was I to keep?' Jaime countered. 'Had I kept my oath to the king, then untold thousands would have perished as a result of his paranoia, including him and me. Thousands upon thousands of innocent lives or one mad king?'

Brienne sank to Nikolas' other side. 'It cost your father a great deal.'

'I wasn't thinking about that when I killed Aerys Targareyan,' Jaime said wryly. 'I only thought how I didn't want to die on the whims of a madman.' He slid an arm across Nikolas' shoulders. 'I didn't regret it. Not for a single second. Not even when my reputation was in tatters. I would do it again.'

'You mustn't tell anyone,' Brienne cautioned.

'Not even Cwennie?'

'Not even Cwen.' Brienne smoothed a wayward lock of hair from Nikolas' forehead. 'It would cause problems for many other people if word got out.'

'The least of which would be your mother and me,' Jaime sighed.

'Who else knows?' Nikolas asked.

'Tyrion, Sansa, Arya, the king -'

'The _king_ knows?' Nikolas interrupted.

'Yes, he does,' Brienne said. She glanced up at the ceiling. 'Ser Davos and Lord Gendry.'

'Ser Podrick,' Jaime added. 'And now you.'

'That's a lot of people to be in on a secret,' Nikolas said doubtfully.

'They're the ones who either needed to know or knew from the beginning,' Jaime told him. 'Everyone else who might recognize me is dead.' He gave Brienne a crooked grin, thinking of Edmure Tully. 'Or not clever enough to look beyond clothing, sigils, and the addition of a beard,' he said rubbing his jaw. 'It helps that I wear your mother's sigil. People who knew the Lannisters would never believe that one would consent to wear another sigil.'

'But what if someone does?' Nikolas persisted.

Jaime shifted on the hard stone. 'The king would swear they are mistaken.' He nodded at Brienne. 'It's for _her_ sake, really. Not mine.'

'Why?'

'Because the North remembers,' Jaime intoned. 'Your mother was Sansa's sworn sword. Defended Winterfell and the Stark family.'

Nikolas yawned widely, belatedly covering his mouth with a hand, then slumped against Jaime. 'Shouldn't we be more dignified? Would Grandfather be angry that we're not standing?

Brienne stifled a laugh. 'No. He'd be more angry that we're actually doing all the funeral rites, even if we have abbreviated them. He'd be even more put out that nobody's drunk.'

Jaime unhooked a flask from his belt. 'I can take care of that.' He handed it to Brienne. 'He made me promise on his deathbed to have a drink at his vigil.' Brienne unstoppered it and passed the mouth of the flask under her nose. She grinned a little, tipped the flask up and took a swallow. She then gave it back to Jaime, who lifted the flask in a salute to Selwyn, then took a swallow himself. He met Brienne's eyes over Nikolas' head, and nodded at Nikolas inquiringly. She shrugged as if to say _why not_. Jaime pressed the flask into Nikolas' hand. Nikolas took a cautious sip. 'It's cider!' Nikolas exclaimed. Jamie took the flask back and took a drink. 'I swore I would have a drink at the vigil. I never said what it would be.' He passed it back to Brienne. 'It wouldn't do for us to have sore heads come morning.'

'As if the septon needs another reason to disapprove,' Brienne muttered darkly, before taking a swig and giving the flask back to Jaime.

Jaime raised the flask. 'To Ser Brienne of Tarth and Ser Jaime Lannister. Earning the disapproval of priggish septons all over Westeros. Until the end of our days.'

* * *

The funeral finally over, and Selwyn's body interred with his ancestors, Brienne stood with Nikolas in the sept for the final rite, where Evenfall and Tarth would officially pass into Brienne's keeping. Jaime stood off to the side with Davos, who attended as a lord of the Stormlands, and not in his capacity of Hand of the King. Brienne shot him look of exasperation as she knelt. She hadn't wanted this particular ceremony, but the septon insisted, sermonizing that it would lend legitimacy to her becoming the Evenstar, to Nikolas assuming the role as heir. She'd assented to the rigamarole simply to make the bloody man cease his prattling. Brienne's head bowed as the septon began to speak, more to hide her expression than out of piety. Seven drops of oil trickled over the crown of her head, then it was Nikolas' turn. She heard him exhale strongly through his nose. He was every bit as skeptical of the Seven as his parents, but like them, went through the motions as necessary.

'May the Light of the Seven bless you,' the septon chanted. 'Arise Lady Tarth, Lord Nikolas.' Brienne rose to her full height, with only a slight grimace at the pain in her knees from the stone floor. The septon took her right hand Brienne had to force herself not to jerk away from the pillowy softness of the man's hands. She felt something cold slip over her middle finger and glanced down.

She'd forgotten about the Evenstar, the ring that gave the Tarth lords their nickname. Her father only rarely wore it during her childhood, and never after Brienne had returned from the North. The oval, cabochon star sapphire glimmered with as deep a blue as the waters that surrounded Tarth. Brienne followed the septon out of the sept in a daze, Nikolas and Jaime falling into step behind her. Her fingers curled into a fist, and her other hand curved over it to hide the ring from view. The weight of the ring was alien and heavy. Her stomach lurched at the scent of food. They had arrived in the hall for the feast. 'Please, excuse me for a moment,' she murmured to the septon, before walking quickly out of the hall before she lost all control over her emotions.

Jaime hadn't missed the queer expression that had settled over Brienne's face when the septon slid the ring onto her finger. 'Nikolas.' He clapped the boy on the back. 'Do be so kind as to show Septon Wilhelm to his seat.' He then added in an undertone, 'To your mother's left. You're to sit on her right.'

Nikolas' head whipped around. 'But that's your place.'

'Not today it isn't.' Jaime lightly squeezed his son's shoulder. 'You're the heir and I have no name,' he reminded Nikolas. 'Mmm?'

'Yes, Papa.'

Jaime motioned with his head. 'Go on, then.' He wove his way through the crowd of people come to bid Selwyn Tarth farewell from this world. There were three places Brienne would have gone where she could expect to remain undisturbed - their chamber, the armory, or the solar. He discounted the armory and their chamber due to the distance from the hall, so he went down the corridor to the solar, and tested the door. It was unbolted.

Brienne sat on the floor, hand clamped over her mouth, while she rocked back and forth. Jaime bolted the door, then crouched in front of her. 'Brienne?'

She shook her head slowly and lifted her right hand. 'Sapphires,' she croaked, then threw her head back and laughed, tears trickling from the corners of her eyes. 'I told you there were no sapphires on Tarth,' she gasped. She laughed even harder, hardly able to breathe. 'There was one after all,' Brienne crowed, pounding the floor with a fist. The room rang with her peals of laughter.

Jaime sat back, wrists resting on his knees. '_That's_ what you're thinking about?' he said incredulously. She nodded, tears streaming down her face. She wiped them carelessly away and fell onto her back, arms spread wide, chest heaving. 'It was all I could think about once he put the ring on,' Brienne explained. 'It took everything I had to not laugh in the sept.'

'You held it together admirably. Anyone would have thought you overcome by grief.'

Brienne took in a few deep breaths and sat up. 'I should go back to the hall.' She got her feet under her and stood. Jaime did the same, but with a grunt at the twinge in his own knees. He took her arm and turned her around, then briskly brushed the dust from her clothing. Jaime unbolted the door and put his hand on the latch. 'Ready?'

'No,' Brienne admitted, but she swept through the door, head held high. _I'll try to make you proud, _she promised her father.


	4. All the Hopes and Fears

Tyrion raced down the corridor as quickly as he could and stopped at the chamber given to Brienne and Jaime, panting from the exertion. He raised a fist and hammered on the door, not stopping until one of the chamber's occupants yanked it open. 'What?' barked Jaime. 'It's the middle of the bloody night.' He was clearly disgruntled. And completely naked.

Tyrion scowled and waved a hand in the general direction of Jaime's thighs. 'Could you put something on? I can't think if your cock is staring at me.'

Jaime muttered a number of pungent curses under his breath and snatched up his roughspun trousers from where he'd draped them over the stool earlier. 'What is it?' he asked, stepping into them. He worked them over his hips and held them up with his hand, unable to properly fasten them without his hook.

'It's Sansa. The baby's coming and she's asking for Brienne.'

The bedding rustled and Brienne sprang into view, padding to the stool that held her own clothes, completely unconcerned with her own nudity and Tyrion's presence in the chamber. 'I'll be just a moment,' she said, voice muffled as she pulled her shirt over her head.

Tyrion spun on a heel and stared at a spot on the wall. 'Don't either of you wear anything for sleep?' he grumbled, face aflame with mortification. It was one thing to see Jaime in the nude. He hadn't an ounce of shame when it came to his body. Even at his age. It was quite another to see one as prudish as Brienne without a stitch of clothing on. Even if he had once asked Jaime about her whilst in his cups.

'Why?' Jaime retorted. 'It only slows down the climb,' he added with a wink. He felt a savage pinch on his arse and yelped. Brienne glowered at him, but he gave her a cheeky grin. Her mouth twitched as she tugged her sheepskin boots on and nudged his hands aside, tying the laces of his trousers.

'May we go now?' Tyrion said icily. He strode from the room, his spine stiff. Brienne followed him, choking back a laugh.

'How long has she been having pains?' she asked.

'Shortly after supper.' Tyrion nearly broke into a run. 'Quickly.' He burst into the chamber he shared with Sansa.

Sansa stood at the foot of the bed, hands gripping the footboard, glaring at Maester Wolkan. 'Get him out,' she barked. 'I don't want him touching me…' she added through clenched teeth. Sansa looked imploringly at Brienne. 'Not _there.'_

Brienne needed no other explanation. On the long road between Winterfell and Castle Black, Sansa had haltingly revealed a fraction of what Ramsay Bolotn had done to her. She deftly turned Wolkan around and escorted him from the chamber.

'I don't know what I've done,' the maester murmured, wringing his hands together.

'It has nothing to do with your skills, it's only that you're a man, Maester Wolkan,' Brienne told him briskly. 'Perhaps you would be so kind as to fetch the midwife from the winter town. Lady Stark would feel more comfortable with her.' She firmly closed the door behind the befuddled maester.

'Thank you,' Sansa breathed. She swayed from side to side, growling low in her throat. She pulled one hand off the footboard and blindly groped the air. Brienne took Sansa's hand between her own. Sansa swiped her face over the sleeve of her bedgown. 'I am ever so glad you're here,' she murmured. 'I think I want to lie down.' She clutched at Brienne's arm and crawled onto the bed, then leaned against the pillows. Brienne gently brushed a lock of hair off Sansa's sweaty forehead and tucked it back into her braid. Sansa leaned into the touch. 'I miss my mother,' Sansa told Brienne. 'I wish she were here.'

Brienne reached for the cloth draped over the basin on the table next to the bed and wrung it out with one hand. She blotted Sansa's face with it. 'I felt the same about mine,' she replied. 'And I hardly knew her.'

'And even if Arya were here, she wouldn't be in this room at all,' Sansa added ruefully. She took in a few deep breaths. 'It must have been difficult for you to come all this way just to hold my hand.'

'I swore I would always shield your back.' Brienne tossed the cloth back into the basin.

Sansa pressed her lips together and breathed heavily through her nose. 'You're more than that,' she gasped. Brienne ducked her head and busied herself with straightening the bedding.

Sansa groaned, and Tyrion looked around wildly from the corner he's stationed himself in. 'I should like to be of assistance. What can I do?'

'Y'did your part nine months ago, m'lord,' Eira snickered as she entered the chamber.

Brienne took pity on him. 'Try distracting her,' she advised.

Tyrion nodded vigorously. 'Right. I can do that.' He clambered onto the bed next to Sansa, mentally groping for something to say, and then blurted the first thing that came to mind. 'I once took a jackass and a honeycomb into a brothel,' he declaimed.

'Tyrion,' Sansa grunted, her face close to his.

'Yes?'

'Shut. Up.' Her eyes went wide and her hand clenched around Tyrion's fingers, making him wince in pain.

Brienne's hands dipped into the basin and she wrung out the cloth. 'Have you ever managed to finish that story?' she asked in genuine curiosity. He'd tried to tell it to Nikolas when he was just a few weeks old, but the baby had promptly spit up all over his uncle.

'Not once,' Tyrion admitted.

'Perhaps you should find a different one,' Sansa wheezed.

* * *

Sansa ran a finger over the sparse hair that sprinkled the baby's head. It glittered in the sunlight streaming through the window. "She's got my hair…'

Tyrion managed a smile and said, 'She's just as lovely as her mother.'

'She's perfect,' Sansa declared. 'What should we call her?'

Tyrion traced the baby's snubbed nose, so like his own. 'Joanna,' he murmured. 'It was my…' His eyes stung, and he cleared his throat. 'My mother's name.'

Brienne slipped quietly from the chamber. Jaime sprawled in a chair in front of a fire, and stood when he saw her, stretching thoroughly. 'You should stay,' she told him. 'He needs you.'

Jaime gazed at her face searchingly. 'Has something gone wrong?' His eyes flickered to the closed door behind her.

Brienne's mouth worked a few times. 'No.' she finally said, the corners of her mouth turned down in a pensive frown. 'Sansa is well, and the baby seems healthy.' She briefly touched his fingers with hers, then left Jaime alone in the antechamber. He didn't have to wonder much longer. Tyrion emerged from the room his face a stiff mask Jaime knew well. He put a hand on Tyrion's tense shoulder and silently steered him to the armory. Tyrion blinked in confusion. 'Why are we here? I'm nobody's idea of a fighter.'

'You need to hit something,' Jaime supplied helpfully.

'I beg your pardon?'

Jaime strolled around the room and selected one of the smaller sparring swords they used to train squires at Winterfell, and then shoved it into Tyrion's hand. 'You need to hit something.' He turned Tyrion toward one of the pells. 'Hit that.'

Tyrion shifted his grip on the hilt. 'For low long?'

'Until you can no longer hit it. Or no longer feel the urge to.'

Tyrion raised the sword and brought it down on the pell as hard as he could. Jaime leaned against the wall, crossed his arms over his chest, and looked down at the toes of his boots, listening to the dull _thuds_ as the sword smacked into the straw-stuffed pell. Some time passed before Tyrion let the sword fall from his hand, wheezing for air. 'The consequences of my actions have finally caught up with me,' he muttered.

'What are you talking about?'

Tyrion's mouth thinned. 'My daughter is a dwarf.' He began to laugh, but there was no humor in it. 'The gods have finally punished me for my sins.'

'Do you honestly believe the gods punish innocent children for their parents' misdeeds?'

'You don't?' Tyrion shot back with a knowing look.

Jaime felt as Tyrion had punched him in the stomach. 'Who says the gods were punishing me?'

'Tommen and Myrcella were yours, too.'

Jaime's hand clenched. 'And _hers._' He sat on a bale of hay, elbows resting on his knees. 'And she did far more than I ever did.' He let out a long, slow breath. 'And I still don't believe the gods rain down punishment on our children for our misdeeds.' He stretched out his feet in front of him. 'If that were the case, then Nikolas would have shriveled and died in the womb.' He jerked his head toward the space next to him in invitation.

Tyrion slumped on the hay bale in a dejected heap. 'Do you really think the gods would punish someone as principled as your…' He trailed off and turned to look at his brother, a bemused frown on his face. 'Is she your wife? Are you even actually legally married?'

Jaime fiddled with a buckle on his hook. 'I wouldn't go so far as to say we're married. More like each other's sworn swords…' He shrugged. 'Selwyn Tarth regards us as so, informal as it may be.'

Tyrion didn't bother to hide his grimace. 'The two of you make me want to vomit,' he said darkly.

Jaime nudged his brother. 'A daughter, you said?' he prompted, deliberately changing the subject from his unorthodox marriage.

'Joanna.' Tyrion picked at a loose thread on the knee of his trousers. 'Do you think our mother would mind very much that I've named my daughter for her?'

Jaime shook his head. 'No, of course not.'


	5. Arya

The screams and laughter of rang through the garden. Arya strode toward the noise as quietly as one of the cats she'd caught here a lifetime ago. Five children played under the shadows of young trees. Arya paused in the shadows to study them. Two had blonde hair and lanky builds that promised prodigious height as adults. Another two bore dark hair, and the last, a small girl, had thick auburn hair. Arya felt a smile spread over her face. The laughter died down and the children stared at Arya. 'Who are you?' the blonde boy demanded. The boy's features reminded her of the Lannisters. Arya judged him to be roughly eight or nine years old. He swiftly nocked an arrow and drew the bowstring back. It was aimed at her heart.

Arya spread out both hands, arms held away from her body, leaving Needle and the Valeryan steel dagger in their scabbards. 'I'm Arya Stark. Who are you?'

'Nikolas Tarth,' the boy replied warily. His eyes never moved from Arya. 'Cwennie, go fetch Mamma and Papa. Ned, get your father.' Nikolas' voice was quiet, but the command was unmistakable. The blonde girl and one of the dark-haired boys pelted off toward the castle. Nikolas kept the arrow aimed at her. It was only a training arrow, the end rounded and blunt, but if he let it fly, it would hurt like hell and leave a terrible bruise, but no lasting damage. It could, however, create enough of a distraction so he could grab the little ones and run. Arya smiled. There was something familiar about the intensity in the boy's eyes that she couldn't quite put her finger on.

Footsteps pounded on the path behind Nikolas. Arya's gaze flickered upward. Brienne of Tarth came charging into the garden, a determined gleam in her eye and sword in hand. Arya would have recognized the woman anywhere. The two blonde children were clearly hers. The boy had her mouth and the girl inherited her mother's eyes. She was followed by Jon and another man that Arya couldn't quite place. They also carried unsheathed, edged swords. Brienne skidded to a stop just behind Nikolas. She laid a hand on the boy's skinny shoulder. 'Nikolas, lower your bow,' she ordered. Nikolas obeyed, but kept the arrow nocked. Brienne stared at Arya, brows drawing together as her eyes lit on Needle. She slid her sword into its scabbard. 'Arya?'

'Yes.'

Jon sheathed his sword. 'Arya…' He enfolded her in a tight embrace, nose buried in her hair. 'We've missed you…' He released her and turned, scooping up the smaller of the dark-haired boys, who poked a finger into his mouth and gaped at the strange woman standing in front of them. 'This is Benjen, my younger boy.' Jon beckoned to the other one, with Jon's dark eyes and a tumble of curls falling into his face. Jon tenderly ran a hand over the mop of curls. 'And this is my oldest, Eddard, but we call him Ned.'

'You named him for Father,' Arya breathed.

'I did. I hope you don't mind.'

'Of course not.' Arya glanced around the garden. 'Do they have a mother, or have you hidden her away in some dungeon?'

Jon blushed. 'O' course they do.'

A woman roughly Jon's age appeared next to him, face wreathed in a smile. 'Talla,' she said. 'It's so lovely to finally meet you. Jon speaks of you often.'

Arya examined the woman. She was quite pretty, with an open, cheerful face. 'How'd you manage to persuade her to marry you?' she chortled to Jon, punching him lightly on the arm.

'It was quite the other way around,' Talla said idly, taking Benjen from Jon's arms. 'Poor thing kept trying to explain why he was unsuitable to marry anyone, right up to the moment my brother escorted me into the Winterfell godswood.'

'Papa,' Nikolas whispered loudly. 'That can't be Arya Stark. Joanna's nurse says that Arya Stark shapeshifted into a wolf that roams the Riverlands.' The boy's father quietly shushed him.

Arya studied the greying, bearded man Nikolas called "Papa." Her eyes narrowed. Years fell away and Arya moved closer, the man watching her warily. 'Jaime Lannister was said to have died. A victim of the Dragon Queen's madness,' she said so quietly, only Jaime and Nikolas heard her.

Jaime's head cocked to one side. 'Arya Stark was said to have sailed off on the Sunset Sea and fell off the edge of the world.' A corner of his mouth turned up and he shrugged. 'But here we are.'

A slower, measured tread sounded on the path. Arya pushed past Jaime and walked straight into Sansa's arms. They stood wrapped around one another until Sansa pulled back a little and swiped at the tears on her cheeks with the back of her hand. 'Which of these brats are yours?' Arya asked, as if she had missed the Tully auburn hair on the small girl.

Sansa held out a hand. 'Joanna.' The girl ran toward her and smiled up at Arya. 'She's my oldest. She's just turned six.' Sansa turned and lifted a little boy into her arms. 'Young Jaime. Named for his uncle. He'll be two soon.'

'Why did you name your son after a Lannister?' Arya asked, wrinkling her nose.

'_I _did.' Tyrion came stumping up to join the group.

'Father haunting you at all?' Arya asked dryly.

'Not yet,' Tyrion said in a droll voice. 'I'm expecting it any day now.'


End file.
